To think the sixty-something year old man who cleans the sweat off the floor of the gym where i work will do so while singing old Colombian ballads. He'll stop by the front desk to ask how I am, to joke around, sing me a song or ask me to translate something for him. He reminds me of mi abuelo.
Here I am, feeling guilty that I get to sit on my ass greeting people on autopilot, reading books between greetings, sipping coffee at my leisure.
"I am young and able. I should take that rag off your hands and ask you to sit in my place so the world feels right again. I can't go on living in a place where men who should be traveling the world or sitting in a front porch drinking lemonade are cleaning after people who pay to run in place on these machines."
How does one say that out loud?
"Dios Mio". I want to hug him and tell him that it isn't fair. Another overworked and underpaid immigrant at the mercy of a capitalist venture. And the saddest/most beautiful part is that he's grateful for his job and does it well. that he smiles every single day and makes me smile. he sings those old Spanish songs with the soul of an artist. That is what he is, a musician, not a janitor.
to think that the people around you live lives disguised as worker bees, to think they're human beings underneath.
no es justo.
No comments:
Post a Comment